


The Sorcery Within

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Every Little Thing [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Soul Eater
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Developing Relationship, Graduation, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Swimming, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Giriko isn’t cut out for teaching." Giriko's been chasing students out of his Care of Magical Creatures class within the years since he started his tenure as a professor. Unfortunately his usual tactics don't work on the newest Ravenclaw student.





	1. Blank

Giriko isn’t cut out for teaching.

He knows this. He’s known it his whole life, could have told Lord Death as much a handful of decades ago when he was a sullen seventh-year attending classes as much out of dug-in habit as out of any real interest. He had wanted to be a dragon tamer, to go wandering the wilderness without anyone hovering over his shoulder or insisting on a particular way to do things, where the only thing anyone really cared about was whether he brought wild dragons in for training and, to a lesser extent, that he didn’t get himself killed while out on a mission. But he lacked the connections for that pursuit, in the end, and a brief stint working with the curse testing branch of the Ministry had left him with a rough-edged scar across his stomach, a laundry list of crimes to his name, and the threat of a sentence to Azkaban long enough to undo whatever sanity he had left to him and leave him useless for any kind of civilized society.

He should be grateful, he supposes. Lord Death had offered both himself and his erstwhile Ministry supervisor refuge at the school, claiming to the Ministry that he was taking full responsibility for their rehabilitation and reintroduction to society and that allowing Arachne and Giriko to graduate without ‘considering their underlying psychological struggles’ was a failing of the school rather than of their own psyches. Giriko had thought for a few weeks that the academy was going to be closed entirely during the uproar; but this is hardly the first time Lord Death has used his sway to take in those wizards and witches deemed too unsafe for general society and turn them into members of his faculty. It’s a matter of loyalty, Giriko supposes -- when you’re offered a reasonably ordinary life in exchange for work, you’re unlikely to turn on your employer -- but he suspects it has more to do with a faith in their ability to reform that Giriko, at least, doesn’t share. But Arachne settles into the library with far more grace than Giriko expected, seeming as at home there as she did on those few occasions he ran into her while they were students together, and if Giriko is relegated to handling the magical creatures at the periphery of the school grounds, well, he doesn’t much like the rest of the staff anyway. With a whole host of dangerous creatures to look after and one of the less popular elective courses to teach, he manages to slide through the first two years without any more inconvenience than scowling at the few third-years who make the mistake of signing up for his class. None of them stick around past the first year of what lackluster education Giriko provides, and that’s just the way Giriko likes it; the sooner he can be left alone with the animals he finds far easier to deal with than humans, the better.

Unfortunately he always has to chase off the new students at the start of each school year. Giriko avoids the entrance ceremony and indeed the Great Hall entirely as much as possible; he’d prefer to visit the kitchens directly if he needs something, and by now the house elves know to bring meals directly to his home without being told. The farther Giriko can get from the responsibilities of the school to which he owes his loyalty the happier he is; but today is the first day of teaching class, and much though he’d like to growl and frighten off the half-dozen third-years in front of him, he’s been told politely but firmly that he must make at least an attempt at teaching, at least until all the students have requested permission to transfer to another elective course for next year.

“Hey,” he says to this group, fixing the lot of them with the most intimidating scowl he can muster. “Care of Magical Creatures?”

There’s silence. There’s always silence, if he manages to growl the name of the class with sufficient force; in this case all six of his temporary students are staring wide-eyed at him, the majority looking like they’re considering bolting for the relative security of the castle behind them. Giriko fixes his attention on one of the shakiest, a boy nearly a foot shorter than those around him, and demands, “That what you’re here for?” The boy cringes, taking a half-step back and looking away from Giriko’s gaze; his motion takes him halfway behind the cover of one of the two girls in the class, a Slytherin who looks like she’s considering retreating just as fast as her classmate is attempting to.

“Hey,” Giriko says again, without easing his fixed glare on the cowering boy. “First rule of my class is you _answer_ when I--”

“Yes.” The answer comes from the back of the class, a high voice with surprising calm under the tone; it’s not the terrified boy trying to melt into the ground but one of the slightly taller ones, if still not of a height with the Slytherin girl. He doesn’t look nervous at all, when Giriko lifts his head to consider him; in truth he doesn’t look like much of _anything_ , at first glance. His pale hair is almost the color of his skin, the combination stripping him down to completely bland normalcy; except that his eyes are fixed on Giriko without wavering at all, his gaze so blue and blank he looks more like a doll than a living human. Giriko blinks, some part of his awareness murmuring _Imperius?_ ; but of course it’s not, no one would bothering Imperius-ing a thirteen-year-old boy even if they could get away with it on academy grounds, and when he looks for it there’s still attention behind that stare, some whisper of human emotion that comes out in the weighty pause before the boy appends “Sir” to his statement in that same flat tone.

Giriko frowns. It’s not a comfortable experience to be stared at so directly and without any trace of the fear he’s trying to elicit; it feels like a challenge, even if he knows it’s absurd to feel so about a student when he clearly holds the position of authority. “Who the hell are you?”

“Justin Law, sir.” Again there’s that title of authority, delivered with such a complete lack of emotion it feels more mocking than laughter would. “I’m one of your students for Care of Magical Creatures.”

“I’m no sir,” Giriko snaps. He’s glaring at the other now; the boy is unremarkable, bearing all the unpleasant traits of the half-growth children Giriko finds so distasteful, except for that complete lack of fear behind the strange uncanny flat of his eyes. His robes are absolutely black, the standard-issue cut perfectly within the letter of the school rules, without any of the adornments to tell his House affiliation or personal character the other students so regularly affect. Giriko’s scowl deepens. “What the fuck are you, a Gryffindor?”

Justin shakes his head, a short, sharp arc of motion to give a precise response to Giriko’s question. “I was Sorted into Ravenclaw.” His tone gives the verb the capital letter it technically deserves; hearing him feels like listening to a textbook given voice and an ostensibly human form. “I believe your language is inappropriate for a school setting, Professor.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Giriko growls, and takes a step forward towards the cluster of students. They scatter before him like leaves in a wind, ready to abandon their classmate at the first sign of trouble; but that doesn’t seem to ruffle Justin’s composure any more than anything else does. He keeps watching Giriko with those strange eyes, with that self-assurance so uncomfortably _wrong_ in that child’s face, and even when Giriko is looming over him with all the implied threat his greater height and breadth can bring to bear Justin barely blinks, doesn’t give away the least sense of danger in any part of his expression.

“This is my class,” Giriko tells him, grating the words in his throat like he’s revving an engine deep down inside the span of his chest. “I’m gonna talk however I damn well please so long as I’m the one teaching it. If you’ve got a problem with it, you can take your propriety and take yourself right the fuck back out of my class and find yourself another elective.”

Justin stares back at Giriko for a long minute. Giriko wonders if he won’t just turn and leave; knowing Ravenclaws he’ll do the proper thing and go to the Headmaster’s office to complain to Lord Death directly. It’s a relatively minor infraction compared to the things Giriko did in his first few months at the school; there’s no chance of any measurable fallout, other than having to suffer through one of Lord Death’s long-winded chats over cups of the tea Giriko hates. He’s ready for it, ready to grin victory as soon as Justin turns to go; and then Justin blinks, and ducks his head, and Giriko is left speechless as he says, with that same perfect calm, “You are correct. I apologize, Professor.”

Giriko feels like he missed a step while climbing stairs. There was no sign of intimidation behind those blank doll eyes, nothing like uncertainty in the boy’s expression; he had surrendered all at once, without giving any warning that he was about to do so, and Giriko is left feeling more unsettled than if Justin had indeed turned on his heel to retreat to the relative safety of the castle. He gapes for a few seconds, his thoughts too scattered to allow him to regain coherency for the span of several heartbeats; and then he drags his mouth into the weight of a scowl, and turns away to stride away at once.

“Anyone else got a problem with me?” he asks, turning on his heel to glare at the remainder of the class. They cringe back in a panic so instinctive it undoes some of the uncomfortable distaste in Giriko’s chest, and when he continues it’s with his scowl twisting into a vicious grin at this evidence that the rest of his class, at least, is normal. “Good. Let’s get this over with, then.”

The rest of the class goes smoothly, or at least as smoothly as anything involving Giriko trying to babysit six thirteen-year-olds ever does. Justin’s questions are thankfully limited and focused on the subject with a laser precision that Giriko might appreciate in someone else; but his focused stare doesn’t get any less unsettling over the course of the class, and by the time Giriko dismisses the students by the simple expedience of telling them to “Fuck off” with an evocative hand wave, he’s already looking forward to the relief of the beer waiting for him inside his house.

He sincerely hopes that Justin Law is among those who decides to transfer to another elective.


	2. Persist

Objectively, Giriko has great luck with that year’s batch of third-years. He gets two to drop in the first week -- the terrified boy and the tall Slytherin girl -- and manages to chase off another just before the first round of midterms by offering the threat of a test involving Ashwinder eggs and a timed test period. By the end of term, Giriko is confident the trio of students left will be requesting to switch electives for the next school year and leave him free to reestablish his reign of terror over a new handful of third years.

Justin Law, unfortunately, is not one of the dropouts. Giriko had hoped the boy might cave eventually, or even just get bored of the travesty of teaching Giriko offers by way of curriculum; but after their brief conflict the first day Justin offers no complaints at all, almost no words at all, just arrives to class on time and listens without any trace of emotional reaction to anything Giriko does. Giriko keeps a closer eye on him than usual for the first few days -- where there was once rebellion there might be again -- but then he stops, because the steady focus in Justin’s expression is too uncanny to watch for very long without starting to feel discomfort like dread rising low in the pit of his stomach. Justin doesn’t look _at_ things -- he seems to see _through_ them instead, until Giriko begins to feel like it’s his own innermost thoughts on display with every class period rather than details on the proper caring and raising of Phoenix chicks.

The only comfort Giriko has is that Justin isn’t particularly _good_ at Care of Magical Creatures. He studies, at least, or has a memory for spoken directions as uncanny as the color of his eyes; Giriko can’t get him to make even the slightest error on any kind of written test. But the animals don’t seem to care for him any more than Giriko does, they shy away from his touch regardless of how slow the boy moves or how much patience he demonstrates. Eventually he manages to make contact with some of the slower and less skittish creatures, the ones that warm up to anyone given enough exposure; but Giriko is gratified by the difficulties Justin is having, even if they’re beyond his ability to control personally. It might be fine for the first year of classes, but the higher-level creatures only get more finicky and harder to handle. Surely the same intelligence that earned Justin his House sorting will let him see that any further pursuit of Giriko’s class is doomed before it begins, and he will quietly remove himself from the elective with the coming of the new school year. This happy thought soothes Giriko through the interminable process of final exams, and the parties and celebration that come with the end of every school year, and finally classes are over, and the students are gone, and Giriko is left to peaceful pursuit of his own interests for the ever-too-short duration of the summer months. By the time September returns, as it inevitably does, Giriko is very nearly optimistic for his newest batch of third-years. After all, there’s no way they can be worse than the prior year’s.

They are.

Giriko should have checked his class roster. He never bothers -- he doesn’t care about the names of students he doesn’t yet know and hopefully will soon never see again -- so when the sheet of parchment arrives in Lord Death’s curving handwriting he cast it aside to be forgotten as it is every year. When his first day of classes arrives, he goes out wholly unprepared to meet the handful of third-years, wide-eyed with nerves and uncertainty...and a single fourth-year with pale blond hair and blank blue eyes.

Giriko stops dead. “ _You_ ,” he grates, ignoring the cluster of new students -- eight, this time, the most he’s ever had at once -- in favor of fixing the one recognizable face with his most vicious scowl. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here.”

“I enrolled in the second course you offer in Care of Magical Creatures,” Justin says, with that same untouchable calm that seems so deeply at odds with his apparent age. “I passed the first and wished to continue my studies.”

“You _barely_ passed the first,” Giriko tells him. He had thought about failing Justin outright, considered abusing his prerogative as a professor to force the other out of his class on the basis of his dreadful practical exam grades in spite of his perfect written performance; but it had felt too much like cheating, somehow, in whatever silent war they have going on, so in the end he had given the boy a mediocre grade and assumed common sense and an interest in perfect academic performance would do the work for him. It seems like a foolish hope, now, with Justin staring calmly back at him from the crowd of his new students as the first fourth-year to ever continue in Giriko’s Care of Magical Creatures course. “You have zero talent for working with animals, you know.”

Justin nods without looking so much as self-conscious. “I know.”

Giriko scowls hard at him. “So why are you _here_? Shouldn’t you be burying yourself in Arithmancy or some other bullshit Ravenclaw class instead of forcing yourself to continue with what you’re terrible at?”

“I’ll never improve if I only ever run away away from my failings,” Justin says, sounding so level and steady Giriko feels a little like he’s being quoted at, or as if Justin has somehow stolen the position of professor from him to lecture in his place. “I chose to pursue this course from the electives available to me last year and I intend to see it through to its conclusion.”

“No,” Giriko says. “Get out of my class.”

Justin tips his head to the side, very slightly, like a bird trying to get a read on something it’s looking at.  “I passed the prerequisite course, correct?”

Giriko growls. “ _Barely_.”

“I did pass,” Justin reiterates. “This course only requires completion of the previous class to join. As I meet the minimum requirements, you cannot refuse to offer the curriculum to me.”

“You little _brat_ ,” Giriko hisses. “I should have failed you in the first place.”

Justin meets his glare without so much as blinking. “You didn’t. I’m taking this course.”

“ _Damn it_ ,” Giriko spits. “I’m not passing you this time, I don’t care how perfect your exams are. If you can’t work with the animals there’s no point in you pursuing this, this is a waste of time.”

Justin blinks at him. “Do you intend to begin class today, Professor?”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Giriko growls, and looks away from Justin to the remaining third-year students. They’re staring at him or at Justin, eyes wide and mouths agape like a single choreographed unit. Giriko hates them all instantly. “Maybe I’ll just fail _all_ of you right now and save myself the effort.” That brings their attention back to him at once, widens their eyes on panic and brings about a few half-formed protests from the more studious ones; Giriko silences them with the most vicious growl he can muster and a “Anyone who complains can leave right now and save us all some time.” That brings about quiet, at least, to go with the fearful gazes of overprotected children who have never faced anything worse than the possibility of failing a course, and Giriko fixes his attention firmly on the newest batch of students as a better use of his energy than trying to figure out how to gain the upper hand with his old one.

It’s going to be a very, very long year.


	3. Change

Giriko doesn’t fail Justin out of his class. He thinks about it. He thinks about it a lot, with every written test that he skims over and every practical exam he glares through. It’s a pain to teach two levels at once, the worse because with Justin the only fourth-year representative Giriko has to deal with him directly far more than the _never ever_ he would prefer. He looks forward to the first practical exam, is ready for Justin to fail so miserably Giriko has a justification to drop him on the spot; but Justin’s been practicing on his own, or sheer persistence pays off for him in a way Giriko has never seen it work for anyone else ever before, and he does a passable job of completing the task. Justin’s spellwork with the bowtruckle Giriko has brought in for the purposes of testing the only fourth-year student he’s ever had is mechanical, like something studied too long alone without someone to critique it, but it’s unfortunately perfectly effective for the purposes of the exam. Giriko glares Justin off at the end of that class, but Justin is as unaffected as ever, and he handles all future exams with the same tolerable efficacy, if without any of the natural grace Giriko might find more admirable. At the end of the year Giriko doesn’t even bother speaking to Lord Death about the possibility of assigning a failing grade; he knows without asking that he has no grounds for it, and that even his most persuasive argument of _he’s the most annoying student in the entire school_ is unlikely to carry any weight with the far too tolerant Headmaster. So he gives Justin his pass, and locks up all his teaching material, and takes the summer months to take a long research trip across central Europe and avoid the subject of next year’s classes entirely.

He does check his class roster this time. There’s a pair of third-years who chose to continue from his latest batch -- he’s sure that’s Justin’s fault, for putting the idea in their heads by example and by distracting Giriko from his usual efficiency in chasing new students out -- and Justin, of course, requesting to join the fifth-year course that will again have no one in it but himself. Giriko glares at the roster, downs a shot of the vodka he brought back with him from his trip, and scrawls down several ideas for sufficiently dangerous creatures for fifth-year students to work with before he goes to bed still as irritated as when he first opened the note. He’s still out-of-sorts on the first day of class, but there’s nothing terribly unusual in that, and at least this time he’s expecting the silent rebellion of Justin’s flat stare from the lineup of students. He goes out before they arrive, glaring at the castle as if to summon the students with the force of his frustration, and so he sees the cluster of them as soon as they emerge from the front gates, a larger group even than last year and chatty in a way that grits his teeth. There’s apparently enough of them to require the escort of one of the prefects; Giriko can see the height of an older student ushering the others forward, like a pilot attempting to steer a particularly recalcitrant craft into some semblance of order. He doesn’t envy the student the job; but then again, at least the prefect can leave as soon as they’ve handed off the new students to Giriko. _He’s_ stuck with them for the rest of the class session.

“Shut up,” Giriko offers as greeting as the students come close enough for him to see. The third years are easy to pick out; they’re the unfamiliar faces, and the expressions that go wide with confusion at his unorthodox greeting. The fourth years are less confused, and also the ones who were quiet already as they came up; they just look resigned, like they’re bracing themselves for the year to come. Giriko passes over the array of faces, already readying himself to growl irritation at the blue stare he knows will be waiting for him; but there’s no blank expression, no washed-out hair, no sign of the student who’s become frustratingly familiar over the past two years. He frowns, looks over them again; but there’s no mistake, and there’s no Justin anywhere amidst the cluster of students in front of him.

“Damn,” Giriko mutters, more for his own benefit than for the hearing of the children in front of him. He can feel himself starting to grin, can feel the vicious tug of tension at the corner of his mouth as he looks up to glance at the escorting prefect. “All that trouble to send you out here, and you--”

 _Forgot one_ , he’s going to say, going to grin delight all out-of-line with his words; but his vision comes into focus on the escort, and his words die on his lips, because it’s not an escort at all, and if there is a prefect badge pinned to the front of those robes it’s totally secondary to the actual identity of the student watching him with all-too-familiar eyes.

Giriko hadn’t even recognized him. It’s not unreasonable, he thinks; Justin has gained more than a foot of height over the summer, has lost all traces of softness at his shoulders and hands in exchange for the skinny angles and harsh lines of puberty forcing his body to a height his weight hasn’t yet caught up to. Even his face is different, if still holding to some of the baby-soft roundness he’s carried for the last two years; there’s the suggestion of cheekbones, now, the very beginnings of a jawline underneath the pale of his skin, and then there’s the simple fact that his eyes are on a level with Giriko’s now if not a little bit above. Giriko thinks he might not recognize Justin at all, even with the odd pale of his hair, if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes are exactly the same as always, his gaze still as unreadable and flat as ever.

“What the fuck,” Giriko blurts, entirely forgetting the rest of the class in front of him. “ _Justin_?”

Justin doesn’t blink. “Yes.” His voice is different too, if still in a far higher range than Giriko’s; it’s settled a bit, dropped down by an octave from the childish heights it once scaled and into something a little more resonant, a little lower in his chest.

“The _hell_ happened to you?” Giriko asks, too off-balance to think through the rhetorical stupidity of his question.

“I was made a Ravenclaw prefect,” Justin says, and that’s not at all what Giriko was asking but it’s enough to bring him back to the moment, to shut his mouth on any additional absurd questions and scowl past the burn of sudden embarrassment that he can feel surge under his skin. Justin doesn’t look away now any more than he did in his first two years; his stare seems to carry more weight, now, with his extra height to support his focus. Giriko feels more off-balance than he has since Lord Death offered him a reprieve from Azkaban.

“That’s obvious,” he finally musters, and looks away from Justin’s gaze to consider the remainder of the students in front of him. They’re all watching him with varied expressions of curiosity, boredom, and mild fear; it’s not the best start he’s ever made, but it’s still preferable to continuing to meet Justin’s stare. “I hope you all realize what you signed up for,” he growls, and watches the eyes meeting his go wider with the beginnings of concern. _That’s better_. “There’s a reason this is the smallest elective course at the school, and I’ll make sure you all realize it before the week is over.”

He tries not to look at Justin again. It’s easier to talk to the newer students, or even those with enough backbone or enough masochism to make a return after taking his course last year. The fifth-year he ignores entirely, avoiding so much as eye contact for the whole of his introductory warning; but by the time class is over Giriko’s glanced at Justin a handful of times, on accident rather than intent, and every time Justin is staring right back at him as if he hasn’t so much as blinked in the intervening minutes.

Giriko wishes he didn’t feel so much like that might actually be the case.


	4. Bind

Giriko lifts his gaze from the scroll of parchment slowly. Part of this is because he is trying to make a point of the action. Part of it is that he’s in no real hurry to meet the flat stare of the student standing in front of him. And part of it is that he thinks reading over the request in front of him has given him an instant headache, and he can’t see anything in the conversation to come but what will make it worse.

“An _apprenticeship_ ,” he says, grating the words into as much vicious edge as he can possibly give them. “What the _fuck_ do you want with an _apprenticeship_.”

Justin’s focus doesn’t so much as flicker. Giriko didn’t really expect it to -- it hasn’t in the last four years he’s had the boy as a student -- but he holds out desperate hope as the last refuge he has against the endless attention in those blank blue eyes. “I’m interested in pursuing a career in Care of Magical Creatures,” he says, delivering this statement as if it’s something reasonable, as if it’s something a perfectly ordinary top student would select from the infinite options Giriko knows full well exist for Justin at the present moment. “I’ve been excelling in your course for the last four years. My Head of House informed me that an apprenticeship is the next step.”

“You haven’t been _excelling_ ,” Giriko spits across the table at him, shoving his chair back from the support so he can get to his feet and turn his back on Justin completely. The few rooms of his house that have always been more than sufficient for his purposes feel too small with Justin in the middle of the space, as if the ceiling is bearing down on them both to crush Giriko out of existence before he can work himself free of this conversation. “You’ve only barely been passing because you haven’t managed to light yourself on fire yet or kill anything on accident.” He pulls a bottle from the back of the cabinet: Firewhiskey, far stronger than the beer he usually drinks, but a necessity at the moment if only to ease the painful pressure throbbing at his temples. “You must be doing better in every one of your own courses, why this one?”

“I enjoy the challenge,” Justin says, without any trace of enjoyment in his voice or on his face.

Giriko coughs a laugh and cuts his glare sideways at Justin. “Don’t fucking try that,” he growls, and downs a swallow of the Firewhiskey. It’s too much, it burns all down his throat and knots poisonous heat in his stomach, but he doesn’t give in to the urge to cough, just lets the heat ache into his blood while he swings his arm out to gesture at Justin with the open bottle. “I’ve known you for years, don’t think I can’t tell when you’re lying through your teeth.”

Justin’s expression flickers. It’s a tiny tell, just a half-motion of pale lashes and a fractional shift of his lips, but Giriko was watching for it, and the burn of victory that it brings with it is infinitely more warming than the alcohol burning down his throat. He takes another swallow, slower this time, and by the time he emerges he doesn’t have to reach for the dragging grin at the corner of his mouth, the one that makes Lord Death _tsk_ about professional appearances and that makes grown men flinch back in fear when Giriko approaches them.

“What the fuck is your problem,” Giriko says rather than asks, punctuating by setting the Firewhiskey down hard against the edge of his table and taking a step forward to glare at Justin from a closer range. “You’re _terrible_ with animals, you know you are. Why are you so goddamn stubborn that you won’t admit when you can’t do something?” He takes another step forward. Justin is still watching him, his feet planted and shoulders steady; he doesn’t look at all frightened by Giriko’s approach. He doesn’t look like much of anything, other than ostensibly alive and possibly focused on the conversation. Giriko is reminded vividly of that first day of classes again, of facing down a stare so blank he thought of the Unforgivables as an explanation instead of logic; for a brief, insane moment he wishes for the shape of the curse on his lips, wishes for the flicker of light from his wand to let him crack open the polished shell of Justin’s composure, to let him see what kind of insanity might lurk, _must_ lurk, behind that unchanging expression.

“You could do anything,” Giriko tells him, and when he takes a step forward it brings him close against Justin’s unwavering stance, brings his eyes perfectly on level with the other’s. They really are of a height, Giriko is surprised to see; Justin looks taller at a glance, but face-to-face like this Giriko doubts there’s more than a half-inch of gap between them. “You’re a model student in every one of your other classes. You’re the star Ravenclaw Seeker, for fuck’s sake. You could be an Auror, a teacher, a goddamn Quidditch idol.” Giriko hisses the words like they’re blows, like the rough edge of his voice will tear blood from Justin’s untouched skin, but Justin barely blinks, barely breathes; he’s still staring at Giriko like he’s waiting for something, like maybe he’d stand there staring at the other forever if Giriko didn’t do something to force him off-balance. It makes Giriko’s skin crawl, makes his teeth grate against each other as he glares into those unresponsive eyes; when he reaches out it’s to slam his palm down against the parchment still on the table, to pin Justin’s request to the wood as he can’t manage to pin down the other’s motivations. “Why the _fuck_ are you so determined to ruin _my_ life?”

Justin shakes his head. It’s a tiny, precise motion, so abbreviated it barely shifts the pale hair curling across his forehead. “I’m not.”

Giriko throws his hands up. “Then why the _goddamn fuck_ are you insisting on this? You have no talent. You don’t even _like_ this class. Why didn’t you drop your first year with everyone else?”

Justin blinks. The movement is strange to see; Giriko wonders vaguely how rarely he’s seen it before, to feel so unsettled now. Or maybe it’s just that he’s so much closer, that he can see the shadows clinging to Justin’s lashes to cast the weight of them into a darker shade than the pale of his hair, to spread odd illumination over his eyes until the blue looks nearly black for a brief moment.

“I don’t like the class,” he says, his tone flat with sincerity but his voice lower than Giriko remembers it, dipping down like he’s thinking about hitting a lower range even than the summer of his fifth year granted to the childish height of his voice. “I don’t care about Care of Magical Creatures at all.” Giriko takes a breath, ready to push back with the obvious conclusion to this sentence; and Justin’s chin tips up, the light catches his eyes to the brilliance of a summer sky. For a moment Giriko loses his voice, loses his coherence to grasp to words; and it’s in that moment that Justin speaks, still with that same absolute calm on his voice. “I like _you_.”

Giriko is certain for a moment that Justin is joking. There’s no indication of laughter in the other’s expression or tone; but it’s the first answer his skidding thoughts light upon, the only thing with any trace of plausibility under it of the dozens of ideas Giriko’s mind seizes upon and discards as quickly. Certainly it makes more sense than taking the other’s words at face value, than taking the implication of interest, of _affection_ from the lips of someone two decades Giriko’s junior, from a boy only barely clear of the edge between childhood and adolescence, from a _student_ who Giriko--

“ _Shit_ ,” Giriko blurts, and stumbles backwards to collapse into his chair again, his movements made suddenly clumsy in a way he’d prefer to attribute to the Firewhiskey than to the panic currently running all through him. In fact while he’s at it he’d like to attribute the whole of this conversation to the Firewhiskey. Maybe Justin has only ever been an extended hallucination of his, maybe he should go and visit the Infirmary for treatment for an imagined addition to his reality that has proven remarkably consistent over the past four years’ worth of classes. Giriko more than half-wishes he could make himself believe that’s the case; but Justin is staring at him still, is watching him without a flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes, and this time Giriko’s the one who looks away.

“No you don’t,” he says, because that seems like the most reasonable point to start from. “You don’t _like_ me, what the fuck, you’re a _kid_.”

He can see Justin’s shoulders stiffen even in his periphery as he reaches for the Firewhiskey again. “I’m sixteen.”

Giriko cuts a glare sideways up at Justin still standing on the far side of the table. “ _Kid_ ,” he repeats, harder this time, determined to hold to his claim even with Justin’s fixed gaze trying to undermine him. “Do you have any idea how much older I am than you?”

“Significantly,” Justin says, looking and sounding completely unperturbed. “I’m old enough to legally consent.”

“I don’t give a _damn_ ,” Giriko grates out, and swallows back a long draw from the bottle in his hand. “You’re my _student_. I can’t _fuck_ my _student_.” Justin’s lashes dip, just for a moment, the weight of them going suddenly heavy like he can’t hold them up; his mouth goes soft, his cheeks shade into the faintest hint of color, and Giriko would swear up and down that he’s never so much as considered Justin that way before but for a heartbeat of time his imagination dips into shadow, for the span of a single breath he can color Justin’s skin to a darker flush, can imagine the part of those lips on something more than momentary surprise. _He’s_ the one who blushes, this time, his skin rising to a burn of self-consciousness dark enough to show up even under his usual tan, and when he retreats to the bottle it’s as much to give himself another reason for his flush as to chase away the sharp awareness of his own too-vivid imagination.

Justin clears his throat as Giriko sets the bottle down. Giriko doesn’t look up at the other’s expression -- he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the label on the Firewhiskey -- but the burn of the alcohol in his throat does nothing at all to push aside the clear care with which Justin frames his words, as deliberately as if he’s laying down a verdict in some court of law. “I won’t be your student forever.”

“No,” Giriko growls at the bottle. “You’ll graduate, and you’ll _leave_ , and you’ll be glad you stopped wasting your time on a bullshit elective with an unqualified teacher.”

“I won’t.” Justin’s voice is lower than Giriko has ever heard it, so tense it’s verging on actual chill; Giriko glances up through his hair, just for a moment, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the look in Justin’s eyes. The summer sky is gone; there’s winter there, now, an ice that Giriko didn’t know the other had in him, cold like snow, like the water of the Great Lake in the hard freeze that comes with December, like the stare of some domesticated animal gone feral and vicious overnight. It’s not _Imperius_ behind Justin’s eyes, now; it’s _Crucio_ , delivered in the icy tone of certainty, or maybe the Killing Curse itself, pressing against the other’s set lips like he’s ready to fling a hand out and offer wandless murder across the span of Giriko’s house. Giriko’s breath freezes in his lungs, his whole body goes tense with instinctive, reflexive fear, and Justin keeps staring at him, his gaze locked onto Giriko’s without so much as a flicker of dark lashes to break his focus. “If you won’t accept me as an apprentice then I’ll take it up with Professor Stein, or Albarn, and I’ll work with them until I graduate.” He reaches out to touch the curling edge of the paper between them, to pin the weight of it down against the table as if it’s in any danger of being knocked askew, as if Giriko isn’t keenly aware of the curving sweeps of ink across the parchment in a handwriting as precisely, perfectly beautiful as Justin is himself, as Giriko never has been and will never match.

“But I don’t want to work with them,” Justin says, and slides the parchment an inch forward, until the curling end is sliding over the edge of the table to fall into Giriko’s lap. Giriko doesn’t look away from Justin’s stare. “I want to work with you.”

Giriko glares up at Justin. He’s willing the other to blink, to flinch, to turn away or flush into embarrassment or react in some ordinary, human way to the conversation they’re having. But Justin just watches him, his expression wiped clean of that brief, momentary heat, even the frigid fury behind his eyes vanishing behind the inscrutable wall he so often shows. Giriko wonders what kind of heat there might be to find, if he could pull that mask off, wonders how much anger Justin has fitting inside those narrow shoulders and those skinny wrists, wonders which of them would win, if he pushed it to the point of a fight. Wonders if there even is a fight still to be had between them, or if the decisive battle has already been fought and lost.

“ _Why_?” Giriko asks, finally, setting the bottle in his hand down hard against the top edge of the parchment, just alongside Justin’s bracing fingers. “What in Merlin’s name is there for you to like about me? Fuck, I don’t even _like_ you.”

“I know,” Justin says, calm and controlled once again; and then his lips twitch, his mouth curves, and he’s _smiling_ , so suddenly and so brightly that Giriko feels like he’s been blindsided, like Justin’s just slammed a punch into the side of his head and left him dizzy and reeling from the impact. He doesn’t know what expression he offers in response, but whatever it is, it’s apparently entertaining enough to pull Justin’s smile wider still, to crinkle the corners of those brilliant eyes and huff his breathing into the outline of what is almost a _laugh_ , something approaching the childish delight Giriko has never seen the least trace of anywhere in Justin’s behavior. “That’s why I like you.”

Giriko stares at Justin, his mouth open and his thoughts spinning; Justin catches a breath, and closes his mouth on the soft of that smile, but it still clings to his lashes, still tugs hard at the corner of his lips. Giriko never wants to see Justin look so human again. Giriko already craves another glimpse of that smile.

“Fuck,” he says succinctly, and ducks his head over the parchment as he roughly shoves the edge back over the support of the table and reaches to fumble for a quill. His is dry, the ink in the pot long since evaporated without his notice; but Justin has one, of course Justin has one, is offering a perfect owl quill across the table even as Giriko is hissing frustration at the dried ink on his own. Giriko looks back up at the other, his scowl digging grooves into the corners of his mouth; but Justin just gazes blandly back at him, his mask perfectly in place and not so much as slipping even when Giriko snatches the offered quill from him with a growl too vicious to allow space for coherent words. His scrawled signature is as vague as the sound he made; but it glows bright against the parchment as he draws the quill away, the haze of light standing as binding proof for the apprentice he has just taken on.

“Here,” Giriko says, shoving roughly at the quill and parchment together with one hand while he reaches for his bottle with the other. “You got what you wanted, right? Now get the fuck out of my home, I don’t want to see you again until finals.”

“Of course,” Justin says, as perfectly calm in his agreement as he is in collecting the scroll of parchment and rolling it back into a neat curl. His pen he tucks away somewhere in the uninterrupted black of his robes while Giriko swallows another mouthful of Firewhiskey, and by the time he’s lowering the bottle from his lips and dragging the back of his hand over his mouth Justin is ducking his head into a nod that completely fails to carry any indication of submission with it.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice back to his usual absolute politeness to match the steady focus behind his eyes as he lifts his head to meet Giriko’s glare. “I look forward to working with you this summer.”

“I don’t,” Giriko says, his fingers still tight against the neck of his bottle. “I told you to get the fuck out.”

“Your wish is my command,” Justin says with perfect equanimity, and he’s going, leaving Giriko’s home with the same deliberate attention he shows in all his movements. Giriko glares after him, watching the motion of the other’s actions flutter the edge of his robes; they’re almost mechanical, show an attention that keeps them from achieving real fluidity, but there’s something strangely intriguing about them in spite of that that Giriko can’t look away from, as if Justin’s starting to grow into the clumsy length of his new height and is finding some kind of uncanny elegance to his actions with it. He’s still staring when the door swings shut behind Justin, the rattle of the weight landing against the frame enough to startle Giriko back into himself; and then the only thing left to him to do is to scowl at the shut door, and hiss something incoherent and furious at the wood, and dedicate himself to getting well and truly drunk in an effort to stave off the power of an overactive imagination awoken from a years-long slumber by the hint of color under Justin’s pale skin.

He falls asleep over the table instead of making it to the comfort of bed, but at least the discomfort keeps him from remembering the details of the overheated dreams that linger well through the morning.


	5. Self-Preservation

“That’s really all you needed?” Justin asks from the edge of the Great Lake, where the ripples caused by his motion are lapping against the rocks that line the perimeter. “I could have collected that in ten minutes.”

“Yeah,” Giriko says, reaching out to adjust the leaves Justin returned with where they’re drying along the rock neck to him before bringing the beer in his other hand to his lips and taking a deliberately long swallow from it. “I coulda done it in five.” He shrugs one-shouldered without looking away from the bright glow of the summer sky overhead. “Don’t worry about it though, for your first time you were quick.”

“I thought it would be a longer project,” Justin says, shifting so he can rest an arm against the rock in front of him to hold himself steady. “Isn’t using gillyweed for this a bit wasteful?”

“Oh wow,” Giriko says to the sky with mock surprise. “I guess you’re right. I coulda just cast a charm on you and let you go down that way, huh?”

Justin huffs from the surface of the water. “I could have done it myself if you had told me.”

“You shoulda asked.” Giriko swallows another mouthful of beer, savouring the bitter tang of it on the back of his tongue as the cold liquid slides down his throat. “‘Stead of just doing what I told you to without questioning anything.”

“Yes,” Justin deadpans from the lake. “I trusted the professor in charge of my apprenticeship, how could I have made such an amateur mistake.”

“I should fail you just for that,” Giriko declares. “Then I’d have my summer to myself again instead of giving up my entire vacation to tutor a Ravenclaw brat.”

“You could go right now,” Justin points out. “You’d at least have forty minutes of peace before I can go anywhere but here.”

Giriko glances down. Justin’s not looking at him; he has his chin braced against the support of his arm over the rock, his head just free of the water so the gills brought about by his unwary consumption of the gillyweed Giriko offered him can stay below the surface of the lake. His hand shows the signs of it too, with the thin span of webbing that has spread up to connect the elegant lines of individual fingers one to the next, but his face is unaffected, his eyes still their usual summer blue and the pale of his hair only made slightly darker by the weight of the water that’s soaked into it. Even that’s drying rapidly in the heat of the afternoon; Giriko can see the very edges of the strands curling to softness against Justin’s forehead even as the other gazes out across the hill in front of him.

“Nah,” Giriko says, and kicks a leg out in front of him to hang over the edge of the rock he’s sitting on while he braces himself with his free hand. “I kinda like watching you suffer.”

Justin’s mouth quirks at the very corner, just for a moment. “I’m hardly suffering.”

Giriko grins. “Nice and cool for you down there?”

“It is.” Justin turns his head to consider Giriko alongside him instead of the grass of the lakeside. “Isn’t it quite warm for you?”

“Shut up,” Giriko tells him. “I ain’t swimming for you or anyone.”

Justin blinks. “Don’t you know how?”

“I can goddamn _swim_ ,” Giriko scowls. “There’s just no point when I can send idiot apprentices down to deal with the merfolk and save me the trouble.”

Justin hums. “It really is comfortable,” he says, his gaze sliding down from Giriko’s face to catch at the hem of the other’s jeans, rolled up around his knees in allowance for the wading he was doing a few minutes before. Justin shifts to rest his head against the support of his arm against the rock, the blue of his gaze sliding half-focused as he moves, and when he reaches out with his other hand it’s to touch the very tips of his fingers to Giriko’s bare ankle, like he’s feeling for the shape of the bone underneath. “You might as well join me, if you’re already planning to spend the next half hour gloating.”

Justin’s skin is cool to the touch, chilled from the water and the effect of the gillyweed together; Giriko can feel the cool run up his leg from the ghosting contact, as if the weight of Justin’s fingers is draining the human warmth from his veins to pull him down towards the water’s surface, to draw him into the cool unfamiliarity of the world below. He takes a breath and feels air catching uncertain in his lungs, like his body is already craving the weight of water dragging through gills, as if the contact of Justin’s skin is enough to make the effort of breathing with human lungs a burden rather than an instinct.

“The lake’s going to your head,” Giriko says, and he doesn’t pull his foot away from Justin’s touch. “You think you’re some kind of siren, now? Planning to drown me and have your revenge on me that way?”

Justin’s gaze skips up from the weight of his fingers at Giriko’s skin, his ever-unreadable eyes fixing to hold Giriko’s stare steady against his. His hair is half-dry, now, his face turned up to catch the glow of the sunlight against his skin. There’s the faintest dapple of shadow across the high arch of his cheekbones, the beginnings of freckles brought out in exchange for the flushed sunburn that clung there for the first two weeks of Justin’s apprenticeship. Giriko wants to press his mouth against the pattern, wants to drag his tongue over the summertime shadows and catch his teeth at the delicate skin just at the corner of Justin’s lashes to press in the dark of a bruise of his own claiming, a mark to stand alongside those the sun has already left against the inhuman porcelain of the other’s skin.

“Yes,” Justin says, his thumb sliding to curl around Giriko’s ankle and make a delicate cage of his hold. “Be careful or I’ll pull you under.”

“ _I_ should be careful?” Giriko asks. His fingers brace against the cool condensation at the side of the Ever-Chilled glass against his palm. “You’re underestimating me, kid.” He takes a long, slow swallow; when he looks back Justin’s gaze has slid from his eyes down to his neck, washed-out blue lingering against the motion clinging to Giriko’s throat. “Might turn out you have a shark on your hands instead of the easy prey you expected, and your gills won’t last forever.”

“No,” Justin says. His fingers tighten, his thumb digs in hard against Giriko’s skin to score a thin line of pain over the other’s ankle; Giriko hisses, jerking sideways in a reflexive attempt to pull free, but Justin lets himself be pulled with the motion, the surface of the lake rippling into fractured patterns as he shifts through the water. He catches at the edge of the rock Giriko’s on with his free hand, webbed fingers spreading wide for traction; the wave of his wake catches over his shoulders to splash wet into his half-dried hair. When he looks back up it’s from almost directly below Giriko’s position; Giriko imagines he can see the midday sun catching to glow white-hot behind Justin’s lashes, imagines he can see the shimmer of endless depths to the blue of Justin’s eyes. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Giriko stares down at Justin gazing up at him, feels the double meaning of the other’s words slide down his spine as if Justin had pulled those uncanny-cool fingers all down the curve of his back. He swings his foot sideways to pull his ankle free of Justin’s hold, uncaring when the other’s fingernails catch to scrape aching pressure over his skin, and then kicks out against Justin’s shoulder, shoving down to force the other under the surface of the water in a rush of movement. Justin goes down while he’s still shutting his eyes to the press of the water, the pale of his hair splashing under the dark surface of the lake in immediate surrender to the force of Giriko’s movement, and for a moment there’s just sunshine sparkling bright off the splash of the water, even the outline of Justin’s pale limbs gone vague and distorted by the angle of illumination travelling through the liquid. Giriko draws his foot up onto the rock in front of him, watches the surface of the water smooth and clear into the placid calm of a mirror; and it’s only then that Justin reemerges, smoothly, without the gasping lungful of air that would ordinarily follow such a forced submersion.

“You’ve got no sense of self-preservation,” Giriko tells him while Justin is still blinking to shed the weight of water from the dark of his lashes. “You keep on like this and something’s going to eat you alive someday.”

Justin’s gaze skips up to land at Giriko’s face, his eyes as focused and steady as ever. There’s no trace of fear in his expression, not even the tension of a laugh or the weight of a frown at his lips; just attention, flat and focused and pristine, and maybe the faintest suggestion of shadow tangled in his lashes and fitting against the curve of his mouth.

“Yes,” Justin says, and pushes away from the shore of the lake to tread water a foot away, just out of reach of Giriko’s position at the rocky edge. “I suppose something will.”

The ripples across the lake smooth and flatten to glassy clarity, the air goes quiet but for the summertime heat; but neither Giriko nor Justin look away from each other for a long, long time.


	6. Tempt

It’s nearly sunset by the time Justin arrives. The nights are still long in the early months of the year, the shadows descending early and lingering late, and Giriko rarely finishes dinner before the fading light of the day is spreading to oranges and reds across the sky. He hurries through his meal today, his thoughts racing and his motions mechanical and the quicker for the lack of distraction, but if he’s impatient Justin must be even more so, because Giriko has barely Vanished his clean-scraped dishes when there’s a knock against his door, the separate raps careful metered to such a precise accuracy that that alone would tell who it is visiting even if Giriko wasn’t expecting company. Giriko can feel his skin prickle to heat, can feel a shiver as of electricity run down the whole length of his spine, and when he speaks to growl “It’s unlocked” it’s with roughness on his voice as much to counter that almost-nervousness as to bid Justin entry.

Justin is slow to respond. The delay goes so long Giriko wonders if his voice didn’t carry, if Justin somehow didn’t hear the rough edges of permission the other granted him; but then, just as Giriko is scowling at the door and opening his mouth for another shout, the handle turns, the door swings open, and Justin is stepping into the main room, his stride as carefully measured as the rhythm of his knock. He’s wearing his usual robes, the black unadorned of anything to tell who he is or even to what house he belongs; but they’re open, this time, undone all down the front to show the pale blue of Muggle-style jeans and the fall of a t-shirt bearing the logo of what Giriko assumes is some band printed in rough-edged lettering across a white background. Justin steps past the doorway, pauses with his feet just inside the entrance, and when he speaks it’s with a hand still at the edge of the door, his fingers still bracing the weight of it open. “Good evening.”

“Yeah,” Giriko says, acknowledgment without any attempt to return the greeting. His heart is beating harder than it should, harder than it has any right to; it’s just Justin, after all, by this point Giriko knows the other as well as he has ever known anyone, including himself. But those blue eyes are watching him, clear and untouched by any trace of judgment, and Giriko can feel the self-consciousness that stare always brings unfolding into his veins like a chill, like ice to make his movements jerky and uncertain.

He nods towards the door, the action rough and forced. “Let that shut. You’ll be here for a while.”

Justin doesn’t blink. There’s not so much as a flicker across his expression to show his reaction to Giriko’s words; but his fingers tighten against the door, just for a moment, for the span of a heartbeat before he draws them back and lets the weight of it swing shut against the frame. The rattle of the impact shakes the house and resonates in the back of Giriko’s teeth; it feels like punctuation, like a dare to action Justin is forming from his very surroundings rather than aloud.

Giriko turns away. Justin is still standing in the entrance, still staring at him like he’s awaiting a sign of what to do, and if Giriko keeps looking at the way that t-shirt clings to the curve of the other’s waist he’s not going to be able to stick to his plan for the night. So he turns, and reaches for his wand, and hisses an “ _Accio_ ” in the vague direction of the kitchen without bothering to turn around.

“It’s your birthday today,” he says as he waits for the bottles he Summoned to make their way out of the case and to his waiting hand. “Isn’t it?”

Justin takes a breath behind him. “It is,” he says, careful with the agreement, like he’s signing a contract by acknowledging the truth of the statement.

“Yeah,” Giriko says, and slides his wand back into his pocket as a pair of bottles emerge from the kitchen to steer themselves towards his waiting hands. He catches the chill of the glass against his palms, one in each, and brings one to his mouth to set his teeth against the metal of the lid. It pops off easily, the attachment giving way to the practiced force of sharp teeth, and Giriko lets the lid clatter to the floor as he turns to offer the beer to Justin. “Happy birthday.”

Justin blinks. There’s a flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes, or maybe confusion at some part of this situation going counter to his expectations. “Thank you,” he says, polite even in his confusion, and reaches out to catch the bottle against his palm.

“You’re welcome.” Giriko leaves Justin to hold the bottle, popping his own open as he turns fully around and strides in to drop to sit at the table; when he gestures it’s with the angle of the bottle in his fingers, indicating the chair across from him without looking at it. “Have a seat.”

Justin hesitates. Giriko can see the other in his periphery, can see his stillness speaking to his uncertainty, but he doesn’t look up, even when Justin clears his throat and says, “Should I take my robes off?”

“If you want,” Giriko says. He keeps his gaze on the side of his bottle rather than meeting the steady attention behind Justin’s eyes. “Make yourself comfortable. No point in a celebratory beer if you’re all stiff and formal about it.”

“Ah,” Justin says. “Right.” Giriko keeps his gaze on the bottle, on the table, on his fingers holding to the curve under his palm; anything is better than looking up to meet Justin’s stare, or to see what the rustle of sound indicates the other is doing. It’s not until he hears the _click_ of glass against the other side of the table, not until he’s sure Justin’s sitting down and out of reach, that he lets himself look up from under the shadow of his hair. Justin has taken off his uniform robes, draping them over the back of his chair in a dark spill of fabric; his shoulders look narrower than usual with just the white of his t-shirt to span them, his skin winter-pale until it’s almost a match for the fabric. Giriko’s attention clings to Justin’s face, his focus seeking out the promise of the summer in freckles he knows to be long-since absent, and Justin looks up from the table to meet the other’s gaze, his eyes wide and clear with their usual uncanny focus.

“I don’t drink,” he tells Giriko, his fingers still steady against the neck of his beer.

Giriko huffs a laugh. “Of course you don’t,” he says. “You’re too much of a goody-two-shoes to indulge illegally.” He lifts his own bottle, angling it out over the table in an overt suggestion. “Congratulations. You get to try it now.”

Justin considers Giriko’s bottle for a long moment, his fingers working over the glass under his touch. Giriko wonders if he isn’t going to refuse, if he might not reject this indulgence as contrary to the one Giriko knows he really wants; but then Justin sighs an exhale, and lifts his own bottle to tap the weight of it gently against Giriko’s.

“Happy birthday,” Giriko says gruffly, and lifts his bottle to his lips to down a long swallow of it. The cold of the liquid is soothing, the bitter of the taste familiar over his tongue; Justin takes a far smaller sip, and coughs hard at the taste. He has a hand pressed to his mouth when Giriko lowers his beer to consider him, his cheeks flushed to pink with the effort of his coughing; he’s looking at the bottle and not at Giriko, his forehead creased into consideration.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Giriko tells him, the warning too belated to even approach its intended purpose. “Might as well drink up or you’ll never learn to like it.”

“Of course,” Justin says, glancing up from his bottle to stare flatly at Giriko. “ _That_ is clearly the logical course of action.”

Giriko gestures with his bottle. “Don’t get all Ravenclaw on me,” he orders. “Drink.”

Justin doesn’t look like he’s at all willing to comply with this order; but he lifts the bottle to his lips anyway, tipping his head back to down a larger swallow than he did the first time. Giriko watches his throat work over the action, watches Justin’s fingers tense against the neck of the bottle in the instant before he pulls it away to set back against the table.

“Better?” Giriko asks.

Justin shakes his head. “No,” he says, but his mouth is set on determination, and he takes another swallow as soon as he’s set his shoulders for it again. This one is a little smoother, at least; when Justin sets his bottle down this time he leaves it against the table, lifting a hand to his lips to drag across the damp clinging to his skin.

“Much though I appreciate the gesture,” he starts, his gaze skipping up from the bottle to Giriko’s stare at him, “this isn’t precisely what I thought you intended in inviting me over tonight.”

Giriko raises his eyebrows. “What, you were betting on me bending you over the table instead?” He lifts his beer to his lips and downs a long swallow of it without looking away from Justin’s gaze. “I told you, not while I’m your teacher.”

“I could drop your class,” Justin says. His foot bumps against Giriko’s ankle, his knee presses close against the other’s leg. There’s color rising across his cheeks, the faintest indication of embarrassment staining the porcelain pale of his skin, but he’s not looking away, and there’s no trace of hesitation behind the focus of his eyes. “You wouldn’t be my teacher then.”  
“And you wouldn’t be able to graduate with a full class load.” Giriko kicks Justin’s leg aside, roughly knocking away the other’s balance before lifting his booted foot to press hard against the inside of the other’s leg, just above the open angle of his knee. “If you don’t pass my class I can’t make you my full-time assistant when you graduate.”

“You could anyway,” Justin says. “Lord Death would let you do whatever you wanted.”

“You sure about that?” Giriko asks. “What if _I_ don’t want to?” His boot slides sideways, the tread against the sole catching and dragging at the inside seam of Justin’s jeans; Justin blinks, the dip of his lashes his only visible concession to the friction, but his knee tips wider, the open angle of his thigh making an unstated invitation of his position. Giriko can feel his heart pounding faster on adrenaline, can feel his breathing catching harder in his chest. He tightens his grip on his beer and lifts it to his mouth for another swallow. “You that ready to give up the future for a quick fix tonight?” His foot slides higher by an inch; he flexes his leg, lets the force grind his toe hard against the inside of Justin’s thigh. Across the table Justin’s lashes dip, his expression flickering to shadow for a heartbeat of time. Giriko can feel the other’s body tense against the pressure of his foot.

“You could,” he says, without taking another drink from his beer and without looking away from Justin’s stare. The other’s mouth is tense, set into a fixed line while the blue of his gaze holds steady and unreadable, but his cheeks are going darker, his skin showing the proof of rising heat that the blank of his eyes and the set of his mouth are still managing to resist. Giriko’s heart is pounding, his blood rushing to fire in his veins; his voice is dropping lower, gaining depth and force as his words turn over to grind to seduction in his throat. “It’s your call.” He flexes his leg again, sliding his foot up so it’s his heel against Justin’s thigh and not his toe; the movement draws the contact a half-inch higher, the incidental action bringing Giriko’s foot closer towards the inside line of Justin’s jeans.

“Say the word,” Giriko suggests, punctuating with an ungentle shove of his foot against Justin’s leg, hard enough to rock the other sideways on his chair. Justin abandons his hold on his beer bottle to grab at the edge of the table, his hold desperate enough that Giriko can see the tendons flexing to visibility all along the inside line of his arm; but he’s still staring at Giriko, his eyes still focused on the other’s face, and Giriko can feel his heart racing with anticipation, with adrenaline, with something between hope and terror crystalline and electric in his veins. “Drop my class, if that’s what you want. You won’t be my student anymore, then; we’d just be two consenting adults, we can do whatever the hell we want to tonight.” Giriko slides his boot higher, braces his heel hard against the inside line of Justin’s jeans; if it weren’t for the weight of his shoe, he’s sure he’d be able to feel Justin hot right through the barrier of the denim, is sure he’d be able to press the arch of his foot against the resistance of the other’s cock and grind against the heat of it. Justin would melt into the pressure, Giriko is certain of it; he’s barely holding back as it is, with only the clumsy weight of Giriko’s boot shoving rough against him.

“I’d fuck you right now,” Giriko suggests, feeling his spine prickle with the thought of it, feeling his voice rumble to shadow in the depth of his chest. “Tonight. Right here. Happy birthday to you and all that.”

Justin’s lashes dip, his blink slow enough that it’s teetering at the edge of surrender, and when he opens his eyes again the wall of blue in his eyes is melted, has given over to shadows so dark Giriko can barely recognize the other’s expression anymore. His lips part, his chin dips down; but when he speaks it’s a sentence, it’s a question, coherency still clinging to his throat beyond the gasping affirmative Giriko was half-expecting. “And tomorrow?”

Giriko stares back unblinkingly. “What about tomorrow?”

He can see Justin’s throat work on a swallow, can see the motion against the collar of the other’s shirt. “What would we be tomorrow?”

Giriko braces his grip against the curve of his beer bottle and lifts it towards his mouth without quite completing the motion. “Dunno.” He swallows a mouthful, lets the bitter of the alcohol saturate his tongue while the cool liquid slides down his throat. “We’d probably keep fucking around for a month or two.” He sets the bottle down against the table, hard, so the liquid inside splashes against the glass. “Then you’ll graduate, and go find some fancy Ministry job, and I’ll never see you again.”

Justin blinks. “And if I don’t get a Ministry job?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Giriko tells him. “You sure as fuck won’t be working with me.” He doesn’t look away from Justin’s face, doesn’t break eye contact. “If you drop my class we’re done when you graduate.”

Justin’s jaw flexes, just barely, a hardly perceptible shift under his skin. “And you won’t consent to a relationship while you’re my teacher.”

It’s a statement, mostly; Giriko can barely make out the upswing at the end to turn it to a question. “That’s right. ‘S against school policy.”

“You’re stretching the intent of that policy quite far already,” Justin informs him. “Isn’t the goal to avoid any possibility of favoritism? Or do you regularly invite students over for a celebratory drink on their birthdays?”

“Don’t argue the point,” Giriko growls at him. “If I were that worried about it in the first place I’d have sent you home for the summer instead of signing your apprenticeship request.”

“So you’re being argumentative,” Justin concludes. “Just because you have the advantage of power at the moment.”

“Yep.” Giriko tips his bottle up to drain the last of his beer without looking away from Justin’s face; as he sets it back on the table he pushes his foot in against the other’s thigh in forceful reminder. “So what’ll it be?”

Justin stares at him for a long moment. The blank wall behind his eyes is gone, but Giriko can’t make any more sense out of the darkness clinging to his stare now than he could of the polished-glass blue that’s usually there. Finally he lets his hold on the table go and drops his hand to catch at Giriko’s boot.

“I’ll wait,” he says, and shoves hard enough to force the other’s leg back and away. Giriko’s foot falls to the floor with a _bang_ , the motion too sudden for him to stall, and Justin looks away from his face at the same time, reaching up to grab for his beer with a shaky hand. “It’s not worth the price.”

Giriko’s eyebrows jump up. “Damn,” he says, surprise taut in his throat. “I didn’t think you had it in you to refuse.”

“You underestimate me,” Justin says, a statement rather than an insult, and he tips his bottle up to take a long swallow of the beer inside. “I’ve already waited this long, I can wait another few months.”

Giriko can feel his mouth twitch on unwilling amusement. “Fine,” he says. “Guess I can content myself with my hand for a bit longer.” He braces his foot flat on the floor and leans forward to weight his elbow at the table as he jerks his chin towards the beer in Justin’s hand. “How’s it taste now?”

Justin glances sideways at him. “The same as it did,” he says. “Bitter.”

That, at least, Giriko can’t argue with.


	7. Domesticate

Giriko doesn’t attend the graduation ceremony.

He never does. He doesn’t see any purpose to going to a celebration for students he barely knows, and the seventh-years are always more than excited enough in themselves that they won’t notice the absence of one irritable professor from among the congratulatory ranks. He stays at home instead, listening to the sound of the fireworks breaking over the Great Lake and the distant shouts of delight from students freed of their responsibilities to homework and to the school, and he drags his fingertips across the texture of his table, and he waits.

The knock at the door comes with the cessation of sound from around the Lake, like a tell for the end of the festivities or at least enough of a gap in them to allow one recently graduated student to slip away unnoticed. Giriko left the door unlocked again, could just call an invitation from his position at the table; but he straightens instead, pushing to his feet with deliberate care before turning to the entrance to the house. His heart is beating steady in his chest, marking out an even pace for his footsteps to match; he wonders if Justin can hear his heavy tread approaching from the other side of the door, wonders if Justin’s imagination is flaring as bright as Giriko’s own has been over the long hours of the day between them. But imagination isn’t needed any more, fantasy is unimportant under the circumstances, because Giriko is reaching for the handle, and pulling the weight of the door open, and Justin is standing in front of him.

He looks almost ordinary. His robes are as pristine as ever, smooth and untouched by any trace of the celebration he must have just come from; his hair shows no more disarray than it usually does, his mouth is set and his lips are steady. The only indication that there is anything remarkable about this moment is his eyes, where the usual flat of his gaze is vanished like it was never there at all, subsumed by a shadowy weight so great even the pale color looks nearly black for the intensity of his stare. It’s enough to make him look dangerous, to make the slim lines of his shoulders carry the power of a latent threat; for a moment Giriko thinks Justin might curse him, if he were to try to shut the door on him now.

Luckily, Giriko has no intention of doing so.

“Come on,” he says, taking a half-step to the side to make an invitation of the doorway into his house, and Justin moves at once, without any indication of hesitation in entering. Giriko’s position leaves him close enough for Justin’s robes to brush his sleeve, near enough that he could turn his head and press his nose against the soft tangle of the other’s hair; he reaches out as Justin steps past him, catching and closing his fingers hard around the inside of the other’s elbow. Justin stops dead, his whole body turning in surrender to Giriko’s hold, and Giriko can feel his heart pounding harder against his ribcage, as if gaining force from adrenaline more than speed.

“Right here,” Giriko says, and pushes at the weight of the door without turning to meet the gaze he can feel burning against him. The door swings shut, rattling into place against its frame, and Giriko is pulling at Justin’s arm, forcing the other to stumble backwards and towards the entrance again. It would be enough to shove the other back out the door, if it were still open; but it’s not, and with the latched door behind him when Justin trips he falls hard against the support at his shoulders, the impact enough to knock all the breath loose from his body in a rush. He blinks hard, visibly struggling for clarity; but Giriko doesn’t wait, doesn’t give him time to catch his breath. He’s stepping in instead, moving into space that doesn’t exist to shove Justin up hard against the door, to invade the gap of space between the other’s feet with the weight of his boot as he leans in close over the other.

“Say the word,” he says, growling the words against Justin’s mouth as he reaches out to brace his free hand against the wood over the other’s shoulder, to tilt his weight in until he’s casting Justin in his shadow and the threat of his body is all but pinning the other flush to the door. “If you want to back out of this, now’s your chance.”

“No,” Justin says, immediately, giving voice to the word even before he shakes his head in a jerky motion of negation. “I’m not leaving.” He’s breathing hard; Giriko can feel the shallow pant of the other’s inhales gusting hot against his mouth and spilling against the wall of his gritted teeth.

“Alright,” Giriko says, and the agreement feels like a verdict on his lips. “We’re doing this” and he’s moving, fast, before Justin has a chance to even gasp an inhale for a response. His hand at the door slides down, his fingers close into a bruising hold at Justin’s shoulder, and at the same time, in the same motion, with the same heartbeat, Giriko leans in and crushes his mouth hard against Justin’s.

Justin’s lips are soft. That much Giriko was expecting, was sure of; he’s spent long enough watching the deliberate curve of them to know how soft they would be against the rough line of his mouth. He’s the harder for it, he thinks, shoving back to force Justin to the wall as he weights his mouth against the other’s, as he feels that pouting softness give way to the push of his own lips; there’s an edge in him, a growling ache in his chest, a need to crush and break and _take_ that is rather heightened by the feel of Justin’s mouth against his than otherwise. Justin makes a sound against Giriko’s lips, a whimper or a gasp of surprise, Giriko can’t parse the difference and doesn’t care; it’s enough to feel it, to have the shudder of vibration run down the back of his skull and prickle hot against the whole length of his spine, and he wants more immediately, wants to push past Justin’s lips and lick the sound up out of his throat again, wants to taste the thrum of the noise in his own body. Giriko opens his mouth, licks roughly against Justin’s lips, and Justin parts them immediately, so quickly it’s as if the motion is half-complete in his head before Giriko even touches him. He tastes sweet, candy-bright over something darker and richer that clings to the back of Giriko’s tongue, and then there’s a pull in Giriko’s hair and he realizes Justin has his hand up against the other’s body, has his free hand at Giriko’s neck and his fingers twisting up into the other’s hair and that he’s pulling as hard as Giriko is pushing. It’s not just taking; Justin is shoving back, he’s offering resistance to match and meet Giriko’s, and when Giriko licks into Justin’s mouth Justin’s tongue trails the edge of Giriko’s lips too, the motion deliberate and focused like he’s trying to map the whole of the other’s mouth instead of following the rough force Giriko is offering himself.

“Fuck,” Giriko says, but the clarity is lost to Justin’s lips, the rough edges of the word turn over to raw heat against the inside of the other’s mouth. Justin makes another sound, something lower and farther down in his chest, this time, and Giriko can taste the coppery weight of it on his tongue in the moment before he tightens his grip at Justin’s shoulder and pushes the other away against the wall. Justin gasps a breath, his voice audibly strained with heat as Giriko forces him away, and his hand tightens with useless desperation, his arm flexing in a futile attempt to drag the other back in against him by force.

“Robes,” Giriko says, his coherency too scattered to allow for something more detailed, and he closes his fingers at Justin’s shoulder to a fist on the fabric, dragging hard to force it free. Justin stumbles at the action, his balance jerked roughly sideways by Giriko’s hold and the fastening at the collar of his clothes; but in spite of the haze in his eyes he’s moving quickly, freeing his grip from the other’s hair so he can reach and shove hard at the clip at the front of his robes. Giriko growls, something between encouragement and frustration straining on his tongue, and then the fastening comes open and Justin’s robes give way to his pull, and he makes a sound of satisfaction and lets his hold at the other’s elbow go to shove against the dark fabric instead. Justin’s moving as quickly, twisting against Giriko’s hold to slide his arm free of the cloth as fast as Giriko can strip it off him, and underneath there’s another one of those t-shirts, a darker grey this time but still clinging just as close to the lines of Justin’s chest. Giriko drops the robes to the floor, disregarding whatever tidiness they might have had in favor of freeing his hands as rapidly as possible, and the next place his fingers land is Justin’s hip, his thumb catching and shoving against the hem of that absurdly thin t-shirt. The fabric slides up easy, giving way to Giriko’s shove without offering any resistance at all, and Giriko fits his fingers in against Justin’s waist, pressing in hard like he’s trying to draw blood under the force of his nails. Justin shudders, his whole body trembling against Giriko’s touch, and when Giriko pulls Justin arches in towards him, making a concession of his body as quickly as Giriko’s force makes a demand of it.

“Get these off,” Giriko growls, biting the words off harsh against the part of Justin’s lips as he pins the other in close against him, as he reaches to shove roughly against the waistband of Justin’s jeans. Justin is reaching for the button at the front already, fumbling for traction as quickly as Giriko demands it, but it’s not fast enough; Giriko is pushing at the denim as the button slides free of its hold, forcing the weight of the clothing down by an inch by aggression more than care. Justin still has his head turned up towards Giriko’s mouth, is still tipping in like he’s trying for another kiss; Giriko gives it to him, bruising heat against the give of Justin’s lips as the other manages to get a hold on the zipper of his jeans and drag it down enough for Giriko to shove the clothing off his hips. He can’t get it far -- it’s impossible to push past Justin’s knees, for one thing, and for another the other hasn’t yet managed to struggle free of his shoes -- but he can get the denim down enough, can strip Justin to the soft stretch of boxers and the pale skin of bare thighs, and that’s enough for what Giriko wants of him right now anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, encouragement so strong in his throat it sounds indistinguishable from anger, and he presses his hand hard against the front of Justin’s boxers, palming roughly over the heat of the other’s cock straining at the fabric. Justin jerks at the touch, his whole body canting forward so hard Giriko thinks he’d lose his balance if it weren’t for the grip he has at Giriko’s neck; but Giriko isn’t particularly concerned about whether Justin can keep to his feet or not, under the circumstances.He’s far more interested in growling satisfaction over Justin’s lips, and grinding pressure against the other’s cock to feel the way Justin’s thighs tremble, the way the other’s body shudders with every motion of his hand. Justin’s clinging to Giriko’s neck, now, relying on the other to support the whole of his weight with just his one-handed hold, and his other is sliding down, tracing against the edge of Giriko’s jeans like he’s looking for an entry point to the other’s clothes. There’s the press of fingertips, the catch of contact against the angle of Giriko’s hip; and then Justin’s touch is sliding down lower, pressing between the weight of Giriko’s pants and the flushed heat of his skin with uncanny grace. It should be an awkward angle, should be a struggle to press even slender fingers down into the barely-present gap; but Justin makes it feel fluid, like an inevitability, and then his fingers are sliding down below the barrier of Giriko’s clothes and his touch is skimming the flushed head of the other’s cock and Giriko is growling far in the back of his throat, desire spiking too high in him to allow for any coherency at all. He bucks his hips forward, a single rough jolt of motion to shove hard against Justin’s touch; Justin’s wrist ends up caught between their bodies, Giriko’s palm shoves harder even than he intended against Justin, and Justin gusts a whimpering exhale at the force, his fingers tensing to scratch hard against the skin at the back of Giriko’s neck.

“ _Ow_ ,” Giriko says, but the pain sounds like heat on his lips and tastes like want across his tongue. “You trying to make me bleed?”

“No,” Justin says, but his fingers are still tense at Giriko’s skin, and when Giriko bucks his hips forward to grind hard against him the shudder that runs along Justin’s spine scrapes his touch farther by an inch. Giriko can feel the ache of the dull pain run down the whole of his spine, can feel the heat of it spill to knot low and heavy in the depths of his stomach. “I’m trying to make you fuck me.”

Giriko huffs a sharp spill of amusement. “Is that the kind of language they let Head Boys use at this school?” he asks. He hooks his thumb under the waistband of Justin’s boxers and pulls down in one quick movement to free the other’s cock from the fabric; Justin catches a startled inhale, his lashes fluttering heavy over his eyes, but Giriko doesn’t give him time to collect

himself before he’s fitting his grip around the other’s length and pressing callused fingers to sensitive skin. “What would your Headmaster say if he heard you talking like that?”

“He’s not my Headmaster,” Justin says, dragging the words in the back of his throat until they come out rough and darker than Giriko has ever heard him speak before. His eyes are all shadow under his lashes, his lips parted on the gasp of his breathing, but his speech is unquestionably clear, even if his voice is almost unrecognizable for how much heat it carries. “I’m not a student anymore.”

Giriko hums in the back of his throat, agreement and appreciation growling into sound he can feel all against the inside of his ribcage. He tightens his hand, settles his grip against Justin’s length; when he pulls up it’s deliberately slow, carefully so he can see the way Justin’s lashes dip and flutter at the friction. Justin’s mouth comes open, his breathing rushes out of his lungs, and Giriko is grinning without thinking about the expression at all.

“Good thing,” he says. “Since I wouldn’t be doing this to a student.”

“ _Ah_.” Justin’s fingers are seizing hard at the back of Giriko’s neck; he’s sagging against the support of the door behind him, his body relying on the resistance of the wall to keep him upright over legs trembling visibly with too much heat to hold his weight. “Yes. I know.”

Giriko snorts. “Guess you do.” He jerks his hand up hard, forcing enough sensation into Justin’s veins that the other arches back against the door, his head angling back sharply against the support, and then Giriko lets him go, reaching down to close his fingers tight on Justin’s wrist and drag the other’s touch back out of his pants while Justin is still trembling helpless to heat against the support.

“On your knees,” Giriko says, and grabs at Justin’s shoulder to shove him down while his legs are still shaky and unsteady. Justin goes all at once, collapsing into more of a fall than a careful descent, and Giriko pushes at his shoulder to knock the other sideways while he’s still blinking in an attempt to clear his vision. Justin topples at once, tipping to fall across the dark heap of his dropped robes, and Giriko turns away as fast as the other is falling, grating out “Stay there” as he steps across the narrow span of the house. It’s only a few strides to the table where he left his wand, only a breath to close his fingers around the handle; by the time he turns back around Justin is only just starting to push up onto his elbows, only just blinking the last effects of his impact with the floor from his gaze. His eyes are dark, his focus pinned on Giriko from across the room like there’s nothing else in the entire world except for the other, like he’s tied a line of his attention to Giriko’s body and is intent on reeling him in, and Giriko would swear he can feel it like a knot behind his ribcage, as if Justin has cast a wandless, wordless _Accio_ on him and is pulling him nearer by sheer force of will.

“Fuck,” Giriko growls, and he’s returning back over the distance faster than he left, feeling anticipation thrum taut across the span of his shoulders. He drops to a knee, landing half atop the tangle of Justin’s clothes around the other’s legs, but he doesn’t stop to move to a better position or to charm the clothes out of the way; he’s reaching for Justin’s boxers instead, pulling them down by force instead of care to leave the other’s skin bare from the hem of his shirt down to the angle of his knees. “You haven’t done this before.” It’s a statement, not a question; still, Justin shakes his head in agreement, his knees tipping wider in instinctive submission as Giriko leans forward to reach for his hip, to spread callused fingers hard against the silk-soft pale of Justin’s skin. His fingers fit against the edges of Justin’s body as if by design, as if the other’s hips were made to be handholds to fit his grip; the thought shudders across his shoulders, hunches heat against his spine, and he’s stretching his other hand out to follow, tipping his wrist to angle his wand to fit into the gap between Justin’s spread-open knees.

“It’s fastest this way,” Giriko explains, glancing up to see the way Justin is staring at him, to watch the panting heat dragging hard against the other’s shoulders under the fall of his t-shirt. Justin’s gaze is fixed on Giriko’s features, his eyes enormous and liquid like he’s trying to drag Giriko down into them, like he’s the siren in truth he has so often seemed to be, and Giriko is ready to let the dark shadows of the other’s lashes close over his head and pull him down to the water’s depths. “I could use a toy--” as he touches the end of his wand against Justin’s entrance, as he twists his wrist through the wordless charm to slick the wood to polished wet, “--or my fingers, maybe.” Justin’s thighs flex, his body trembling in anticipation of the force, and Giriko slides his wand forward into the other’s body, pressing the cool-slick effect of the spell deeper into Justin as he goes. Justin’s forehead creases, his mouth shifts on some not-quite-voiced reaction, and Giriko draws back to push in over that inch again, angling his wrist so the force swells a little wider to press Justin farther open against the weight of the spell.

“But this is quickest.” There’s a rhythm to this charm, a pattern to the movement that goes with it; Giriko hasn’t thought of it in years, not since the last time he had occasion to use it, but it comes back to him with the ease of muscle memory, his wrist flexing and fingers sliding through the action before he quite remembers how. The forward shift is to give another spill of lubrication to the motion, the wrist rotation to increase the pressure stretching Justin open; by the third stroke Justin’s mouth is open, his breathing coming hard enough that it takes the parted lips and audible gasping that come with it to fill the need of his lungs. His gaze has dropped down, now, his focus entirely pinned to Giriko’s hand working the other’s wand between his legs; Giriko is left to stare unobserved at the dark shadow of Justin’s lashes over his eyes, to gaze as long as he likes at the pale tangle of hair catching at the other’s forehead. He watches the crease tighten between Justin’s eyebrows, watches the flicker of tension wash across the other’s expression, and finally: “It gets better,” rough enough to bring Justin’s head up, to pull the glazed blue of the other’s eyes onto him. Justin’s expression is knocked out of all composure, his gaze hazy even when he blinks in a visible attempt to collect his sight back to clarity; he looks undone already, as if some knot of tension behind his expression has been cut clean through to leave him shaky with heat even before he’s been satisfied. Giriko holds the other’s gaze, keeping his attention fixed even as he maintains the rhythm of his motion, and eventually Justin’s eyes clear enough that he feels he has at least a semi-coherent audience.

“With practice.” Giriko shifts his wrist, strokes through a slow thrust. “It’ll feel less weird next time.” He clears his throat. “There’s a charm I could use,” he suggests, framing the words for the tension across Justin’s forehead and the tremor of parted-lip sensation at his mouth. “If it’s too much. It’d make it easier this time, if you--”

Justin jerks his head, moving so hard through the outline of negation that Giriko’s offer dies on his lips. “No,” he says aloud, his voice sharp and certain in his throat. His shoulders are tense, his forehead is creased; but his words are sure, his tone as clear as Giriko could hope. “No, I want to feel you. No charms.”

“It’s gonna hurt,” Giriko tells him, twisting his wrist to underscore his point. Justin’s lashes flutter, his mouth falls open on a gasp; but his knee tips open, his legs spreading wider even as the inside of his thighs tremble with sensation. It makes Giriko’s heart race, makes his cock swell harder against the inside of his jeans, and Justin: “Fine,” as he reaches out for Giriko’s shirt, as his fingers catch and twist to a fist against the give of the fabric. “I don’t care. I want it.”

“Yeah,” Giriko says, his voice dropping over the edge to a growl of appreciation and desire in equal parts. “You asked for it.”

“I did,” Justin agrees, and Giriko pulls his wand back, drawing it free of the other’s body with a speed that leaves Justin hissing and tensing in reaction. Still, his hold at Giriko’s shirt doesn’t ease, and when Giriko rocks back Justin starts to sit up to follow him, more willing to shift from his sprawl across the floor than to loosen his hold.

“Let go,” Giriko tells him, letting Justin’s hip go so he can grab at the other’s wrist instead. “Get your pants off, I’m gonna have a hell of a time fucking you like that.” Justin’s attention drops, he blinks at the tangle they’ve made of his clothes, and Giriko moves back entirely, taking his weight over his heels as he turns his focus to his own clothing. His shirt is off-center, straining uncomfortably over his shoulders and clinging to sweat along the line of his spine; he drags it up and over his head in one quick movement, peeling it off his skin and tossing it aside as the easiest solution to his discomfort. His pants are harder, would require working his boots off before he could shed them completely, and he doesn’t need them gone entirely; they’re far looser, much less of an active discomfort than his shirt was. All he has to do is unfasten the fly, working over denim and metal to loosen the attachments keeping the clothing in place, and then he can push the fabric open and reach down to draw the heat of his cock free of the restraint. He closes his fingers around himself, stroking up for a brief moment of relief for the aching want tensing all across his shoulders, and then he looks up, and Justin is staring at him, his gaze fixed to the motion of Giriko’s hand. His eyes are dark, the blue eclipsed almost entirely to black by his dilated pupils; he did get his pants off after all, has shoved them aside to end up by the door and half-atop Giriko’s discarded shirt, and his knees are angled open, the whole inside line of his thighs making a suggestion for Giriko’s gaze to trail down to the flush of Justin’s cock to the slick invitation of his entrance.

“ _God_ ,” he growls, and he’s reaching out, he’s leaning in, his hand is closing at Justin’s hip and his body is pressing between Justin’s knees and Justin is gasping an inhale of adrenaline under him, his head turning up so the dark of his eyes is fixed entirely on Giriko’s face. Giriko slides his fingers back, braces his hold tight around the base of his cock, and when he looks down it’s only for a moment, only to glance to make sure he’s lined up with Justin’s body. Justin’s breathing harder under him, his fingers coming up to weight at the back of Giriko’s neck, but Giriko doesn’t pause for the contact; he moves instead, holding Justin steady as he rocks his weight forward to push hard against the other’s body. His cock catches at the other, slick skin dragging over the flushed head; and then he’s thrusting forward, and Justin’s groaning into heat, and Giriko is sinking deep into him on the first forward motion. Justin tightens around him, his body flexing involuntarily against the intrusion of Giriko’s cock, but Giriko doesn’t wait for him to adjust; he has a hand at Justin’s hip to brace him, after all, it’s an easy thing to draw back and rock forward again to push deeper into the other’s body. Justin shudders with the force, his back curving like he’s trying to slide free of Giriko’s hold, his thighs tensing around the other’s hips, and Giriko huffs an exhale and keeps moving.

“I told you,” he says, the words going to a low growl of heat in his throat as his knees brace at the floor, as his body finds a rhythm to thrust hard against the satisfying friction of Justin under him. “You want that charm now?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Justin groans, his head angling back, his throat curving into a line of pale beauty. Giriko can see the thrum of the other’s pulse coming hard just over the collar of his t-shirt, can see tendons strain under the skin as Justin reaches for words. The hand at Giriko’s neck flexes, fingers drag rough against his skin. “No,” Justin manages, gasping the word into the gap between Giriko’s movements over him, his lashes still dipping heavy over the haze of his eyes. “No, keep going.”

Giriko’s eyebrows raise, his breath huffs out of his chest in a cut-off laugh. “You like this,” he says, statement more than question, and snaps his hips forward in a sharp thrust to punctuate. “Is this what you’ve been wanting all along? How many times have you dreamt about getting fucked into the floor by your professor?”

“You,” Justin pants. He’s breathless with heat, his voice straining in his chest, but when he tips his head down and opens his eyes they come into focus on Giriko’s face, the shadows behind his lashes catching to cling at the other’s features. “Not just my professor. _You_.” He arches through another of Giriko’s thrusts, his expression shuddering into blank heat for a moment before he can collect himself back to speech. “And you’re not my professor anymore.”

Giriko growls something halfway between irritation and amusement. “Guess I’m not,” he says, and thrusts forward into Justin hard enough that the other’s gaze fractures out into stunned heat, that his breathing catches and strains over a shocked groan. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“No,” Justin admits, his fingers tensing at Giriko’s neck as his lashes flutter shut, as his mouth falls open over a desperate draw of air. “It wasn’t.”

“Fine,” Giriko says. He slides his knees wider, bracing his weight hard against the floor between the open angle of Justin’s thighs; Justin whimpers, voicing some incoherent almost-protest, but he’s arching up to meet Giriko instead of trying to pull away, his hips angling up as one foot digs in hard against the other’s back. Giriko shoves at Justin’s hip, bracing the other to stillness and taking his balance with the same motion, and when he closes his free hand around the heat of the other’s cock Justin jerks with the contact, his whole body flexing on heat as he hisses into the friction.

“Don’t tell me,” Giriko says, and jerks up fast, his hand sliding into a rough rhythm that draws Justin clenching tight around the rhythm of his thrusts still working the other open. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can’t tell how hot you are for this already.” Justin’s hot to the touch, the head of his cock slick under the weight of Giriko’s fingers; whatever coherency he once had is gone, now, scattered along with the focus in his eyes as he shudders with helpless reaction to Giriko’s motion over him. “I’m gonna make you come so hard you never even think of being with anyone else.”

“Yes,” Justin pants, and “Giriko,” like a plea, like a prayer for some uncaring god. Giriko can see the haze over the other’s blue eyes, can see Justin’s expression falling open on the same tension rising through all the rest of his body; in Justin’s voice his name sounds like a spell, like an enchantment that starts its work before Giriko has even made sense of it, before he has the least chance to dodge its effects. It doesn’t matter anyway; he’s not moving away, not likely to stop now, not when he can feel the strain of anticipated pleasure in every breath Justin takes under him, in the flex of the other’s fingers close against his skin.

“Come on,” Giriko growls, giving voice to encouragement in time with the tension coiling low in his stomach and spiking higher up his spine with every convulsive flutter of Justin’s body around him. His vision is going hazy, his movements falling out of his established rhythm as his attention starts to give way, but he’s still staring at Justin’s face, and still working hard over Justin’s length, and there’s no part of him ready to let himself come before Justin does. “Come on, kid, isn’t this what you’ve wanted all this time?” A hard thrust, a harder stroke; Justin’s nails are drawing blood at the back of Giriko’s neck, Giriko is sure, but he doesn’t try to shift himself free of the other’s hold. “Is it as good as you dreamed it would be?”

“Oh,” Justin chokes, “ _Giriko_ ” hot enough to be an answer all by itself, and Giriko’s hand slips up over him and Justin arches off the floor, his whole body curving into an arc of uncontrolled heat as his voice gives way to a helpless groan of pleasure so sharp it’s almost a shout. His cock jerks in Giriko’s hold, come spilling over the other’s fingers and the trembling strain of his own stomach, and Giriko’s growling satisfaction, the sound of his voice low and heavy enough to match the breathless heights Justin’s is breaking over. He lets his hold on the other’s length go, grabbing to pin Justin hard against the floor with his sticky hand as well as his clean one, and beneath him Justin is still shuddering, still quivering through aftershocks as Giriko sets his knees steady and starts to move with rough intent. Justin’s panting with heat, his whole body clenching hard around Giriko with every stroke the other takes into him, and Giriko is growling wordless satisfaction, encouragement and arousal and anticipation melding together to a low sound in the back of his throat. His thrusts are coming faster, rougher, going out-of-rhythm with the rushed pace of his breathing, and Justin is under him, his eyes gone hazy with heat and his lips parted on panting exhales and his skin warm and slick with sweat and Giriko is losing, he’s falling, he’s toppling over the edge of arousal and into orgasm without any attempt to hold himself back. His hips snap forward, his chest flexes on a groan, and then he’s shuddering into pleasure, all his awareness fading out with the first overwhelming surge of relief that runs through him. He keeps moving, thrusting through the waves of heat that break over him as his fingers flex and ease at the other’s hips; and finally his vision clears, and he sighs himself into stillness over Justin still trembling underneath him.

Neither of them speak for a moment. Giriko’s hands are still printing their weight in bruises into Justin’s hips, Justin’s nails are still catching scratches that Giriko can feel aching against the back of his neck. Justin’s mouth is open on the rush of his breathing, his cheeks are flushed with heat; the blue of his eyes is all shadowed over by the fall of his lashes, his focus clinging to Giriko’s face with a hazy attention that speaks more to his stubbornness than to his actual ability to focus his thoughts.

Giriko clears his throat roughly. “Right,” he says, the words dragging to gravel over the strain of pleasure still rushing fast in his heartbeat. “That’s that, then.” His fingers flex, his thumb slides across Justin’s skin; he can feel the sheen of sweat catch between them to make the motion slick and clammy with moisture. He doesn’t look away from the hazy blue of Justin’s eyes. “Still think it was worth it?”

Justin’s smile is startling, a bright splash of warmth all across an expression Giriko is used to seeing fixed into blank attention or tensing on frustrated determination. It softens the set of his lips, and crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and lights up the shadows of his gaze like sudden sunlight on a cloudy day. Giriko’s breath catches, his thoughts stall, and it’s into the silence of his parted lips that Justin speaks, his voice as clear and steady as Giriko has ever heard it.

“Yes,” he says, the word coming bright around the curve of his smile. “Yes, it was worth it.”

Giriko can’t find words for any kind of a response to that. The best he can manage is a huff, and that barely passing for skepticism, and the way Justin’s smile goes wider says he hears the struggle as clearly as Giriko feels it. The hand at Giriko’s neck slides up, fingers dig in against the back of his head; and when Justin arches up to offer his mouth for a kiss, Giriko ducks down to provide it to him.

In the end, he thinks, Justin has more of a knack for handling wild animals than Giriko ever gave him credit for.


End file.
